


In the Name of the Father

by TaraLaurel1



Series: What's In a Name? [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Child Abuse, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode: s03e02 The Sign of Three, Friendship, Hurt, Hurt John, Hurt John Watson, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Male Friendship, Past Abuse, Past Child Abuse, Pre-The Sign of Three, The Sign of Three Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-27
Updated: 2017-01-20
Packaged: 2018-01-14 00:19:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1245676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TaraLaurel1/pseuds/TaraLaurel1
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"No one was ever supposed to know. Not his mother. Not his sister. And especially, not his best friend." From a prompt from Kura06 on Tumblr to me. "What if John hates his middle name because it was his father's?" Also for letswritesherlock challenge #10 of a missing scene.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. John H. Watson

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: From a prompt from Kura06 on Tumblr to me. "What if John hates his middle name because it was his father's?" Also for letswritesherlock challenge #10 of a missing scene. This is technically multiple missing scenes. We see the scenes from the clips in TSO3 where Sherlock is asking John about his middle name, but they get expanded on. Oh, and Melvin is my grandfather's name. Thought I'd throw that in there.
> 
> There will be a couple of fics like these, for why John doesn't like his middle name.

John H. Watson.

_John_

_Hamish_

_Watson._

John. "God is gracious." Biblical name.  _Jonathan. Johnny. Jon._ John the Baptist. John Lennon. John F. Kennedy. John Travolta. John Wayne.

Named after his grandfather. A good man. A simple, strong name.

The name of a World War II veteran, and now of one from Afghanistan.

A name he could be proud to carry. A name he strove to uphold with respect and honor and dignity because it had come from another man of such noble qualities.

Why couldn't his parents have just stopped there? There was no need for a middle name. It wasn't law. Or they could have picked something else. Why not give him his grandfather's middle name too? Melvin wasn't the attractive or modern of names, but it wasn't as ghastly as Hamish.

But pure dislike for the quality of the sound of the title itself was not the only reason why John detested his middle name.

"Hamish" meant "supplanter". Scottish for James. Another biblical character.

Named after his father. Not a good man.

It was ironic, John sometimes mused to himself, how two of the people who he loathed more than anyone else in the world, and who had hurt him the worst, both bore the same forename.

Hamish George Watson.

James Moriarty.

It was also darkly amusing how both of the men never paid much attention to him, even when making him suffer. Jim's target was always Sherlock. John was just a pawn in that game. Leverage. Nothing more. Even when his father was branding John with his fists, it was never as though he minded the boy at all. It was about  _his_ rage and  _his_ problems. John was just the closest punching bag.

He recalled looking into his ancestry and names when he was a boy and coming across an excerpt on the detested title.

_"People with this name have a deep inner desire to use their abilities in leadership, and to have personal independence. They would rather focus on large, important issues, and delegate the details."_

Hamish Watson certainly preferred to focus on what he perceived as the large, important issues. Apparently, that didn't include his son. The man's priorities were work, work, and well, work. Sometimes shagging his wife. A lot of times alcohol.

_"People with this name tend to be orderly and dedicated to building their lives on a solid foundation of order and service. They value truth, justice, and discipline, and may be quick-tempered with those who do not. Their practical nature makes them good at managing and saving money, and at building things in the material world. Because of their focus on order and practicality, they may seem overly cautious and conservative at times."_

One Sherlock Holmes would scoff at such deductions about a person from merely their given name, but John couldn't help but see the similarities.

_Order and service._

_Discipline._

_Quick-tempered._

Those were the kinder words John could use to describe his father.

And, oh, John had used some colorful terminology when it came to the man. Sometimes he had spoken the words straight in his abuser's face.

Hamish Watson was another military man. He worked his way up the ranks and in a short time had a fancy title that sat on a plague on a fancy desk in a fancy office. John, on the other hand preferred wearing his title on the tape inside his helmet and working in the not so fancy field.

His father probably had rolled over in his early grave when his son turned down the offer at a cushioned and comfortable, in both the physical and monetary sense, desk job.

Years later, when he met Sherlock Holmes for the first time and the man began spewing out John's life story right there for all to see, John had been internally panicking. He was sure the apparent genius or psychic - or whatever he was - was going to spill the metaphorical beans.

And then, he hadn't.

It was quite incredible Sherlock hadn't deduced John's relationship with his father yet. The soldier did dutifully try and hide the truth from all who knew him, but this was the famous detective and his flatmate. Surely after the sleuth saw the doctor day after day, something had to have given him away.

And yet there was never any mention. No questions. Nothing.

He could never be entirely certain as to what Sherlock didn't know, and what Sherlock pretended not to be aware of. Or just purposefully ignored. Or deleted. Or..well, he just could never be certain with Sherlock.

So whether his friend was avoiding the sentiment of it all, trying to give John his privacy, or just plain clueless, John couldn't tell. He prayed it was the last option.

No one was ever supposed to know. Not his mother. Not his sister. And especially, not his best friend.


	2. The Night Everything Changed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the long wait! there are far too many directions this story could take and I just couldn't decide!

It wasn't until the detective started poking around when that internal panic resurfaced.

He wasn't exactly sure what made him use "John H. Watson" in the title of his blog. He was a military, medical and formal man. He supposed he had just done it naturally. Out of habit really.

Now he was severely regretting it.

_"John_ H.  _Watson?"_

_"Yep."_

A single syllable. One word reply.

_Don't let him get interested._

John considered calling his flatmate out on the cigarettes he was currently, and quite conspicuously, trying to hide from the doctor, but decided against it. That would only do two things. First, it would prompt Sherlock to try to hide them again, this time more discreetly. At least now the genius thought he had the upper hand. Second, though, it was merely make Sherlock that much more apt to change the topic back onto John.

And he couldn't have that.

He decided to ignore the inquiry. If he made a fuss, Sherlock would certainly know something bigger was behind the question. Hopefully, showing his own disinterest instead of defensiveness would dissuade the detective from an investigation.

But Sherlock was far more curious in the matter than John had initially assumed.

It was odd, really. His flatmate wasn't one to concern himself with such seemingly trivial matters and pieces of information. What about his middle name had captured the genius' attention?

Whatever it was, John couldn't hold his disinterested ruse forever. His friend had begun making tries as to the true title. Even as the soldier tried to retain his cool, the mere thought of the name sparked a sort of knee jerk reaction he couldn't quite always control.

He would be sitting eating breakfast or trying to enjoy reading when Sherlock would call out a guess and John would be sent whirling back in time. In one moment he was relaxed, and the next, on the verge of a full force breakdown, sometimes right in front of his interrogator. He held it all in though. Swallowed it down. Stowed it. Soldiered on. Whatever you wanted to call it.

The most difficult attack had come when Sherlock had decided it was perfectly appropriate and acceptable to interrupt his small piece of sanctuary in the shower. With the detective behind the closed door and no penetrating, deducing eyes staring him down, John nearly crumbled.

It happened every time of course. The surge of memories, of pain; echoes of the physical agony and present emotional scarring.

Flashes of anger. At Sherlock for his stubborn guessing game. At his father. At himself.

Flickers of fear. At the shadows stalking him from his past. At the terrifying possibility of his friend finding and seeing that looming darkness that always lurked behind him.

He could sometimes sedate his anxiety by telling himself that the haunting horror of his childhood was dead and gone. But he couldn't do the same with the dread of the detective discovering the truth. No one was ever supposed to know. Especially stoic, self-proclaimed sociopath Sherlock Holmes. What would the cold man who turned his nose up at sentiment say if he unraveled John's secret?

He didn't fancy finding out.

So instead, John stood stiff in the shower, closing his eyes as the water pelted against his subtly shuddering body.

But this time when he closed his eyes, it only got worse.

He remembered nights underneath the spray of a shower, water washing off the blood. Standing in the shower as his body uncontrollably shook, his limbs practically seizing under the pain, fear and cold.

And then that one night, locked away in the bathroom.

The night everything changed.

 


	3. Washing it Off

_The locked door and running water drowned out most of the noise outside the bathroom, but not enough._

_Seven year old John Watson stood in the onslaught of water, quaking hands pressed over his ears._

John sucked in a breath, and in doing so, received a throat full of water.

Coughing up the offending liquid and the memories, John bent over, clinging to the wall so as to not collapse right there in the tub. Upon surfacing from the flash, he had snapped his eyes open and they now stung with soap and shampoo. Clamping his lids shut, John was thrust back into another nightmare from his past.

_Ten year old John Watson watched darkly as the floor of the bathtub turned to crimson underneath his feet. He could hear Harry sitting on the floor of the bathroom, nearly soundlessly crying save for the sniffle here and there. Her silent sobs solidified his resolve. The broken nose was worth it if it meant his face getting bashed in and not hers._

_He had stepped in front of her just in time. A second later and Harriet would've been the bloody mess instead of him._

John straightened, hand clenching and releasing in spasms around the shower knob. Shaking his head to dissolve the memory, he turned the dial, suddenly and forcibly subjecting his shuddering body to a freezing downpour. He prayed for the polar pelting to not only numb his body, but also his heart and head.

It didn't work.

_Thirteen year old John Watson turned the dial until he was being showered with liquid warm relaxation. The tepid temperature seemed to soothe his slightly shaking limbs. Of course, he always seemed to be trembling. The inner fear and anger and readiness oftentimes radiated outward, making itself known through subtle physical symptoms. But inside the shower, locked away from the rest of the world, sometimes, just sometimes, he could find a steadiness. A peace._

_The warm water did wonders for his aching body and he paused in the middle of washing his hair to bring a hand to the back of his neck and shoulders, slowly massaging the screaming muscles. He had joined the rugby team at school and was paying the price. But this was a good pain. A rewarding kind of pain. Different than what he was so used to._

_He was still enjoying his reprieve from his life when it was quite promptly interrupted._

_A low bang sounded from beyond the fall of water and closed door, followed by a crash. It was a noise he had grown all too familiar with hearing over the years. The distinct music of someone being thrown against a wall and then falling to the floor, usually taking a lamp or table down with them._

_But this was different. John only knew the sound so well because he was always the one on the receiving end of the blow. Even if it was meant for his mother or sister, he was there, diving in to take their place, to take their pain._

_Slamming his palm against the knob and twisting it almost violently, John ripped open the curtain and leapt out, his soaking frame forgotten. He barely gave himself enough time to throw on his robe before sprinting from the room and down the hall._

_He found Harry first, cowering in the corner, her lip and eyes puffy; eyes from tears, lip from the red line that slashed its way through it. He was about to crouch over her when he saw the true target of the attack. His mother was in a heap on the floor in the kitchen, shards from a glass bowl scattered around her broken body and the man responsible for the mess towering over her._

_John didn't think._

_Before he knew what he was doing, the teenager was charging forward, tackling his father to the ground. The blows that were exchanged following that first leap were little more than a blur to John afterwards. He was only vaguely aware of his own agony as he continued his blind assault. Something stabbed his side at one point, but he paid it no attention. Nor did he notice when his arms and hands began to sting._

_His next coherent memory were arms pulling him off the limp form of his father. The dead look in the monster's eyes._

_John had reeled back then, breaking free from the hands that held him, gasping and cursing and sputtering at the sight. He was sure he had already started hyperventilating when he whipped his head around to see the rest of his surroundings. Police were crowding him but he could make out Harry, now standing with the held of another officer, the house phone hugged against her chest. His sister's eyes were as wide as his father's, but hers were not empty. No, they were filled with so much more. Pain, fear, shock, despair - loss._

_John hesitantly followed to where her eyes were plastered._

_And that's when he saw it. He hadn't noticed before. The rage had boiled forth and blocked everything else. It wasn't just glass surrounding his mother - glass that was now embedded into his limbs - but also blood. A thick red puddle pooled around the woman's skull._

_Ignoring his own pain and the police trying to detain him, John shot across the floor on his knees to her side._

_"Mum!"_

_He was nearly there when an officer grabbed him around the waist, his fingertips just reaching and dipping into the sticky scarlet substance._

_"No! Let me go! Let me through!" More men were now seizing him. "She's my mum! I have to help her! No! Mum! Please!"_

John clutched his chest. He hadn't had a panic attack since shortly after returning from Afghanistan and here he was, barely breathing, all because his flatmate alluded to one simple, stupid name. Bending forward, he pinched his eyes shut, trying desperately to find balance, and oxygen.

_John Watson was used to washing off his own blood off in the shower. He was quite familiar with its scent, how it stuck to the fabric of his clothes and how it was always so difficult to scrub clean._

_This wasn't his own blood on his skin and clothes this time. It was his father's. His mother's. Both were on his hands, quite literally, and one, metaphorically. Both his parents, dead. One from his lack of action, the other from his anger._

_John was pretty positive he would never get it to wash off._


	4. Stop

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I kept the birth certificate dialogue/scene similar to the one in Father's Family Name because I think John's reaction in that was spot on to how he would react and I can't imagine writing it differently. Obviously, it takes a far different turn toward the end of the conversation.

Sherlock was still buttoning his jacket when he heard his flatmate's sharp intake of air from behind the bathroom door. He paused in the hall, stealthily listening to his friend trying desperately to breathe properly, and quite honestly doing a poor job of it. _  
_

He had been around for enough of John's nightmares and knew people well enough to know exactly what he was hearing.

He had thought that something had been amiss with John's reaction to Sherlock's initial inquiry regarding the man's middle name. It was what had spurred the entire investigation, that, and his ridiculous sense of curiosity.

Now, there was no question about it.

Merely alluding to the topic had somehow sparked this severe reaction from his friend.

At first, Sherlock had to admit that he wasn't all that concerned with the little case of the middle name. It was barely a four. He was treating it more with casual interest. But now, now it took top priority. When it came to John's health and safety, be it physical, psychological or emotional, it was beyond a ten.

Sherlock acted quite perfectly nonchalant when his flatmate emerged from the bathroom later, having obviously attempted to compose himself. The detective already has his plans to solve this little mystery under way. He had made several calls and the document he required was to arrive at Baker Street within the next few days.

In the interim, before receiving the parcel, Sherlock took special care of closely watching his bothered blogger. He secretly monitored the man's health and took great care to avoid even broaching the subject. He would save that for the final confrontation. John needed to get this out, whatever  _it_ was.

Sherlock wasn't one to put much stock into sentiment, but when things came to his friend, his life philosophies and mantras tended to get a bit skewed. This secret was tearing John apart from the inside. And the former soldier could ignore it as he probably had been for years, stuffing it away, but eventually, the truth would seep out. Maybe not in exact words. But in anger. In reactions like the one he had in the shower. In nightmares and every other way it would attack him until John finally confronted whatever he was running from.

Sherlock, of course, had his assumptions, his deductions. He was quite honestly pretty close to the mark before he even finally received the document and did a little online digging. But this was John. It didn't matter how  _close_ he was. There was no room for guesses or error.

He had to know the truth, and he had to hear it from John.

So when Sherlock finally had the birth certificate in his hands, he knew what had to be done.

The pair weren't the kind to sit down and share each others' feelings over tea and tears. John wasn't going to just come right out and spit his lifelong secrets into Sherlock's lap. And Sherlock would never ask him to. Not like that. No, this was how they did it. This was how they communicated. How they always had communicated. Through teasing and jokes. Through anger and fights.

And Sherlock knew exactly how to make John angry.

Fixing himself with his most triumphant, and yet apathetic expression, Sherlock leaned against the wall, awaiting his prey that he already heard coming up the steps.

It took John only a few steps and seconds to realize exactly what was in his flatmate's hands.

And only a few moments longer to lose it.

" _That's_ my birth certificate."

"Yep." Popping the "p", Sherlock nonchalantly straightened and started to cross the room.

He could feel John staring after him. Staring, not glaring. Not dropping the grocery bags. Not hauling off and chinning him right there.

It wasn't exactly the initial reaction he had been counting on, but this was John Watson he was facing off with. He should not have expected anything different really. The man was nearly as stoic as the self-proclaimed sociopath. But the doctor couldn't hold the wall up forever. All the detective had to do was wait. Oftentimes John let his emotions, especially his anger, boil a bit before letting it spill over.

"My birth certificate," John repeated slowly, almost thickly, setting down the shopping, all the while keeping his head to the ground.

"Quite easy to obtain, in fact, really," Sherlock shrugged, yet still eyeing his friend from his chair, waiting.

John was gripping the edge of the kitchen table now as he leaned forward.

"So," Sherlock waved the document. "John  _Hamish_  Watson."

John cleared his throat and shook his head, his eyelids briefly falling forcibly shut.

"Good," he nodded, straightening and starting to put the items away. "That's - good for you. Now you can stop bothering me about it."

The entire time he spoke, the blogger refused to look into the sitting area or at the detective, even keeping his back toward the man. Sherlock watched with wordless worry as his friend's hand trembled when he began loading the shelves.

"Yet the case isn't entirely solved," Sherlock continued, trying to ignore the small spasm that shuddered through his flatmate's back. "You hate it. Why? Family name, I assume. Sherlock, of course, is one. As is Mycroft -"

"Just," John dragged out the "s" tiredly, "stop it."

"Well, actually, I don't have to assume, seeing as your birth certificate clearly labels you as the son of Helen and Hamish Watson. Hm. Interesting. Helen, Hamish, Harriet. Think they were going for a pattern. People do that. Have five children and start them all with "K" or "J" or something ridiculous like that. How dull and aggravating. And yet they went with John instead of the obvious "H"."

"A real mystery," John was attempting to sound casual and sarcastic, but something was certainly off in his tone.

"Or perhaps not." Sherlock crossed his legs. "After acquiring your birth certificate -"

And then, it happened.

Oh, Sherlock knew exactly what button to push. He was well aware that if he mentioned the birth certificate enough, he could produce a response. John did so have a thing about his privacy.

"Yes!  _My_  birth certificate!" John spun around, shouting. "Mine. Not property of Sherlock Holmes when he bloody feels like stealing it. Mine. Why am I not surprised? The great genius that is Sherlock Holmes doesn't have enough brain capacity to fit being a decent human being into his Mind Palace! Just once, Sherlock, could you listen to me? Once. One time! I told you, to _stop_."

"Yes, but why?" Sherlock challenged, arching a single eyebrow and filling his voice with feigned arrogance instead of the concern for his friend he was truly experiencing.

"I said "stop it"!" John barked, slamming a shaking fist onto the table. "Leave it alone, Sherlock. Now."

"But your father's name, John. It has to mean something to you. I mean, I'm named after some great grandfather. I don't care. But I'm not most people. And your father. Not some distant relative you never knew. This is more than just embarrassment from childhood nicknames."

"One more word, Sherlock," John threatened, stepping across the threshold into the sitting room, his entire frame quaking.

Sherlock quickly cataloged the sheen of sweat on his friend's brow. The clenching of his fists. The rapid rise and fall of his chest. He had to strike now. If John carried on much longer like this, he was surely suffer cardiac arrest or something of similar nature. He had to pierce John's breaking point to where the anger climaxed and then dropped, leaving only the truth in its wake.

"Are you ashamed of him for some reason?" Sherlock pressed, knowing very well that ashamed was certainly not the word. "No, that's not it. Angry then? Why? Hm? Did he insult you? Of course, I do that all the time. So, obviously more than that. Was he disappointed about your joining the army?" Sherlock supplied another false guess. "Preferred Harry over you? Did the two of you get into a fight? Did you run away? What happened?"

"I killed him!"

The scream that shook the flat was of a caliber neither of the men had ever directed at one another before. And then, silence. It was weighted and seemed to crash over the entire room.

John clenched his fists and bent his back, stepping forward, and then back, and then forward again. His chest was heaving, his haggard and heavy breathing the only noise for several staggering seconds.

And the sound suddenly stopped.

Sherlock snapped his head up to examine his friend to find the horrifying answer to the sudden silence.

John Watson had stopped breathing.


	5. Angry

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> again, some similarities to the companion story, but that's why it is a companion story.

Sherlock launched from his chair and was at John's side in a single bounding step. Gripping the soldier's shoulders, Sherlock forced John to meet his gaze.

"John, be calm. Be calm and look at me. Listen to me. Breathe. Focus. Just focus on breathing. You're safe."

John was sputtering now, gasping and swallowing shallow pockets of air, but he still managed to seize Sherlock's arms and shove the man away.

"You -  _bastard."_ He cracked a broken breath. " _Don't_ \- touch - me," he rasped, the rage clawing at his coughed up words.

And without another word, John turn and staggered toward the door, disappearing out into the hall.

Sherlock was mildly worried that his friend was actually not going to return. But the footsteps that he heard led up to the bedroom and not down to the street. Had John actually left the flat, Sherlock would have certainly, albeit secretly, followed him. His flatmate was in no shape to be wandering London at night.

Even locked away in his bedroom, Sherlock still couldn't shake this clinging concern for his friend. Outside, he could discreetly keep a vigil over the man, but while up in the small room there was hardly any way Sherlock could do so to his satisfaction. The detective forced himself to make due by hovering in the hallway, near the base of the stairs to John's room. He already knew John's footsteps and other sounds perfectly after having so much time to study them. Right then, he could distinctly hear the pounding of John's pacing. Pacing was good. Pacing wasn't packing. Pacing wasn't falling on the floor in a fit and going into cardiac arrest.

Minutes, possibly hours, later, Sherlock couldn't be certain, the noise he had been so focused on ceased. A moment later, the floor creaked again and a doorknob twisted. Sherlock slipped back swiftly and stealthily into 221B, sliding into his chair and trying to appear as nonchalant as possible.

He listened carefully to ever step, John's descent far slower than ever before. Finally, the man slowly made his reemergence into the sitting room. He shuffled with slouched shoulders to his chair.

"You've probably already done your research and made your deductions. Just, let me speak. Let me say what no online article or birth certificate could tell you. And, for once, Sherlock, listen. Because I'm not going to say any of this again."

And he did speak. And for once, Sherlock truly did listen. The detective didn't interrupt or pose any questions, not until he was positive his friend had finished his story. John didn't stop either. He didn't pause for a break or to contain tears. He plowed through the events of his childhood as though he was delivering a military report. He spoke as if telling the story of someone else's wretched life, not his own. Detached and focused, John delivered the details, not even omitting the more delicate parts to spare himself. The only waver in his stoic speech and gaze came toward the end, when he came to describing seeing both his father and mother, dead on the floor. He soldiered through it, his words increasing subtly in speed as if he was simply trying to move past that particular part.

Finally, John sighed, leaning back in his chair to signal he was finished.

There was a measured moment of silence before Sherlock spoke.

"None of that was in the papers," the detective furrowed his brow. "It's not on your record."

"He was a part of a big name company. They pulled some strings. Didn't want their name dragged through the mud I suppose. As me for, it was ruled self defense," John bowed his head. "I got a judge to clear it after school before enlisting. I was starting over. I didn't want any part of that past. I became a doctor so I could help people who needed it. And I became a soldier to protect people who needed it. I did both of those things because - because I couldn't save  _her_ _."_

"John -"

"No, Sherlock. It was my job. And I failed. So I did what I could to make it up to her. But that was all I carried away from that night. I just wanted to forget everything else. Harry and I ended up getting put into a home, but it was only a couple years. As soon as I could, I left for school and then joined up. We never really talked or got on after that night. After they - after they died - is when Harry picked up the bottle. We were angry at each other, angry at him, angry at ourselves. But she was part of that past and I left her behind. I'm not proud of it, but there it is."

"So, there's your answer, Sherlock. No, I'm not ashamed or embarrassed of the name. I'm ashamed that I have  _his_  name. Angry that he's a part of me. I've thought about getting it changed, but what's the bloody use? Because it's not just the name. It's me. My blood. He's a part of me, no matter if I try to forget the past or change my name. I'm still his son. And yeah, you wan't me to admit it? Fine. Here it is. I'm angry. I'm bloody furious at him. At myself. And - I'm terrified. Scared that one day I'll end up just like the bastard."

There was a sharp silence that followed as John refused to now look at the other man.

Until, finally, Sherlock spoke.

"Idiot."


	6. The Best He Could

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy Cow. So this last chapter is finally being added YEARS later.....sorry! Long story short - I recently recovered a lot of my old missing files!! I lost it awhile ago and lost the motivation to rewrite everything. So now I am slowly sorting through the mess and updating what I can, when I can! Enjoy!

_"So, there's your answer, Sherlock. No, I'm not ashamed or embarrassed of the name. I'm ashamed that I have his name. Angry that he's a part of me. I've thought about getting it changed, but what's the bloody use? Because it's not just the name. It's me. My blood. He's a part of me, no matter if I try to forget the past or change my name. I'm still his son. And yeah, you wan't me to admit it? Fine. Here it is. I'm angry. I'm bloody furious at him. At myself. And - I'm terrified. Scared that one day I'll end up just like the bastard."_

_There was a sharp silence that followed as John refused to now look at the other man._

_Until, finally, Sherlock spoke._

_"Idiot."_

“Excuse me?” John took a step back.

“You heard me,” Sherlock answered evenly.

“I just - I tell you - and you have the bloody -”

“Let me explain, John.”

“Oh, yes. Please explain. Tell me how you think calling someone, who just finished telling you about how his father _beat_ him, an idiot, is a perfectly _okay_ thing to do!”

“It is, possible, that the timing was a bit - Not. Good.”

“Just a bit,” John scoffed through a curtain of sarcasm and rage.

“John,” Sherlock sighed, “have you ever hit me?”

“What?” John’s anger momentarily sidestepped to make way for confusion.

“Besides the one occasion where I outright asked you to do so, before punching you, have you ever hit me?”

“No,” John shook his head, incredulous.

“That, and your reaction to my question just now tells me that, you are, in fact, an idiot. On this occasion. Let me ask you another question. Have you ever thought of hitting me?” Sherlock smirked when John refused to reply. “Come now, John.”

“Thoughts occurring to me right now,” John warned.

“And yet you have never struck me. Nor anyone else that I know of, unless they deserved it, of course. And yes, there will probably come a time, if not several, in the future where I, myself, deserve it.”

“What’s your point, Sherlock?” John ran a hand over his face.

“That right there. _That_ was my point. Not many people can show such restraint in my presence. Even Lestrade has let his fist slip in my direction a time or two. Perhaps warranted, though. Of all the people you could live with, John, I am quite possibly the most irritating, aggravating, arrogant and rude arsehole of the lot. And yet, not once, have you taken out those frustrations of living with me, by hitting me. And then there’s your previous reaction to the question. You were shocked. I’d dare say insulted and disgusted. The thought alone repelled you. Would you like further explanation? Hope. The cabbie. Our first case together. You shot him, to save a man who was practically a stranger. And then, even before shooting him, you waited until I was absolutely in mortal danger. Strong moral compass.”

“Doesn’t mean I won’t change,” John swallowed after a long moment.

“Doesn’t mean you will,” Sherlock countered. “We are not our parents, thankfully.”

“Your father controlled and corrupted your childhood, John. Don’t let him do the same to your future.”

“Even if I’m not him in the future, it doesn’t change the past,” John lowered his head. “I killed him. Blinded by rage. I didn’t even notice -” he cut himself off as images of his mother’s body flickered around the edges of his vision.

“You were protecting your family,” Sherlock replied soberly. “Just as you always had. Just as you still do. You killed Hope to protect me. You killed your father to protect them.”

“Bloody, brilliant job I did,” John’s voice made a noise somewhere between a laugh and a sob. “Harry’s - Harry’s drinking herself to death. And Mum - he’d already - I couldn’t -”

John’s body rose from the chair and paced across the room and then turned.

“Harriet Watson is a grown woman, John. Her choices are her own. You are not responsible for her life. You have done all you can, and more.”

“And your mother, well, I won’t tell you words of sentiment that others probably have. They tell you that you weren’t there to stop it. And yet you were right in the other room. And you torture yourself with that fact because it’s worse than if you hadn’t been home at all. People have told you that you were just a boy, but that is a lie. You, John Watson, grew up long before that day. Friends might tell you that your mother would not want you to think like this. In my line of work, I’ve learned that the wishes of the deceased matter little. Your past is your past. There is no changing it. No words to make your grief or guilt eased. People spend far too much time thinking ‘what if’. It is meaningless. All that matters, all that is important, is what you do, now.”

“And what do I do now?”

“Exactly what you always do,” Sherlock smiled a smile he reserved solely for John. “Save the lives you can. Protect the people you can. And know that you, John Watson, have always done, and will always do, the best you can.”

John met Sherlock’s eyes slowly, until finally, the doctor returned the detective’s soft smile.

Their grins faded. Sherlock subtly bowed his head while John nodded stiffly in return. And that was all that needed to be said or done.

It was only mere seconds later when Sherlock started spouting off about the infuriating lack of murderers and criminals in London as of late. John followed the complaint by berating the man for wishing harm to innocent people just so he could flaunt his brain's muscles.

And that was it.

John's middle name, or his past, was never brought up again. Well, almost never.

Because when John said it to Irene and Sherlock, there was no anger or guilt behind it.

Because when years later, it was printed for all to see, there was no underlying pain.

John pointed at the computer screen.

"Does it have to be on the invitation?" He sighed.

"It's your name." Mary protested. "It's traditional."

"It's funny." Sherlock spoke in unison with John's bride-to-be.

And when John looked back around at Sherlock while Mary was busy biting back a laugh, there was no hostility there.

Because, maybe, yes, it was a little funny. And quite possibly John was a tad bit embarrassed by the sound of it.

But his qualms with the name ended there.

He was living a life he was most certainly proud to live and doing his best to take care of those in his life he held most dear, even if people like Sherlock and Harry made that task impossibly difficult. But he was doing it. Saving clients and patients. Protecting his friends and family, and even the whole of London sometimes. Becoming a father, but never _his_ father, and never once doubting himself from the moment Sherlock spilled the beans on his wedding day. Knowing that he had always done, and would always continue to do, the best he could.

And that, well, that was enough.

 


End file.
